Are The Poets Dead

Who would had led If all the poets were dead, When I heard the bell's chime I did not hear a rhyme, Someone needed to give power Back to the love of the flower, And to the sound of the wind Does it start, why does it end, Through suffering or delight No one wanted to write, No one wanted to show them By reciting their own poem. The leaves fell softly to the ground Sadly, I did not hear a sound, Where was that cunning creation That could stir a soul even a nation, For the nature of speech and song Which everyone could recite along, Where were those powerful words That ran wild like animal herds, Words to arouse the lost emotions Beauty, that creates forever devotions, I listened, and it was not heard No one wrote, or recited a word. I waited, and I waited to hear For the sadness, wonder or tear, Had all poets truly vacated No words or poems were created, Inspiration was still everywhere And to it, we are its heir, Then I walked into a saddened graveyard Asking, where was the bard; Mankind was born from a pen Words gave him sin, It is mankind's obligation and duty To write, about his own beauty. Randy L. McClave